A Love Letter to Labi
It was Black History Month, and I recently had had to leave my kids and wife and move into a bedsit in Queen’s Park. Future unknown, I stumbled across the street where this curious singer I had always heard about was doing a low-key gig at the local library. Unbelievable! (I also saw Benjamin Zephaniah read as part of this same Black History Month series.)
There he was, Labi Siffre, on his own – only armed with his acoustic guitar. What a master guitarist he was. And the voice was so present and human. It is not a large library and there were only about 20 or 30 of us there.
For me the gig was life-changing. Labi revealed that there were no Black British singer songwriters who were intimately experimenting with British pop forms with uncanny results, diving into uncharted territory.
The songs he played that night were so powerful and poignant, lyrically and compositionally. And hooks! The brotha had melodic hooks coming out of every crevice of his body.
He also destroyed me as a straight man. There he was within a couple of yards from me declaring his unquestionable love for a man. I had never witnessed so close and upfront a black man singing his heartfelt expression for gay love and sensuality. Very beautiful. Very bold. I so envied him, having recently been so shattered, disappointed and abandoned in my heterosexual romantic experience.
He took a break and wandered around the library. I don't know how or what I said to him. But I did approach him and tried to express my appreciation for his music. It was a funny meeting. He was polite, but for whatever reason we didn't automatically connect.
The music I heard that night blew my mind. I recently discovered his live album Last Songs. I recognise the songs and he is solo on the acoustic guitar, so it must be from the same time as the Queen’s Park library gig. This is a Love Letter To Labi. Thanks for setting me straight.
